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1752–1832

ON THE FALL OF AN ANCIENT OAK TREE

Philip Morin Freneau

While onward moves each circling year Thy mandates, Nature, all obey, As with this moving, changeful sphere The seasons change and never stay;

Old Oak, I to your place return, Where late you stood, and viewing mourn, For the great loss my heart sustained When you declined, long will I sigh,

That hour when you no more remained To cheer the summer, passing by; No longer blessed my eager view, But like some dying friend withdrew.

Though frequent, by that nipping frost, The blast which cold November sends, I saw your leafy honours lost; Hope, for such losses, made amends:

The spring again beheld them grow, And we were pleased, and so was you. Since I your fatal fall survive, Remembrance long shall hold you dear,

And bid some young successor live; By sad Amyntor planted here; Its buds to swell, its leaves to spread, And shade the place when he is dead.

A prince among your towering race, What more your vanished form endears Is that your presence in this place Had been at least one hundred years;

And men that long in dust have laid, When boys, beneath your shadow played. You had your time to feel the sun, To wanton in his cheering ray;—

That time is past, your race is run, And we have nothing more to say, Than, may your oaken spirit go Among Elysian oaks below.

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ON THE FALL OF AN ANCIENT OAK TREE · Philip Morin Freneau · Poetry Cove